


Slim to None

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Fat Shaming, Hand Jobs, M/M, excessive exercising, self-conscious John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 14:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1986732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't normally one for self-confidence issues, but following a case, he's hit with a wave of self-doubt. John is determined to get back his self confidence in any way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a bit More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustABitAsKewd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustABitAsKewd/gifts).



> This is a gift for a Tumblr giveaway for [idowhathedoesjustslower](http://idowhathedoesjustslower.tumblr.com/)
> 
> The Tumblr giveaway was because I hit 10K views on [Praise Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1325305).
> 
> My Tumblr is [testosterone-tea](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/) if you want to come hang out, do fic requests or find out about my next fic giveaway.
> 
> This is part 1 of 2 for this gift. The rest will be posted tomorrow.
> 
> **Trigger Warning! Anything to do with Eating Disorders or Body Shaming**

John was nearly at the end of his rope, and if the two idiots ahead of him didn't cease and desist with their bickering soon, he was literally going to bang their heads together.

Those two idiots happened to be Sherlock and Mycroft.

They were arguing loudly in a mix of what sounded like German, Italian and Japanese. Occasionally, they would throw in an English word, seemingly just to annoy and confuse John further. John felt like yelling at them in Dari, just to show them how irritating it was when you only understood about ten percent of what was being said.

Of course, the Holmes brothers were just as likely to know Dari as any other language. Gits.

Of all the cases that Sherlock could have taken, this was the worst possible one that they could have ended up on.

The worst thing about this case was that it was a 10. That had _never_ happened before, but Sherlock had insisted with growing fervour that _this_ case would be the best case they had ever been on. He'd been right for about the first third of the case. There was everything: espionage, intrigue, government secrets, action packed chases – John should have realized it was all too good to be true.

He also should have realized that if a case this big involved several different governments, it also included Mycroft.

Mycroft's involvement had turned their action-packed adventure into a literal nightmare. It had gone from bad to worse, because not only was Mycroft bothering them at all hours of the day and night, it was becoming more and more obvious that Mycroft was the only one clever enough to keep up with Sherlock, and time was of the essence.

Which lead to Mycroft working with them on the case.

It was terrible, and John was fighting the urge to just shoot them both and have done with it, because if he didn't kill them, they would probably kill each other anyway.

Mycroft hated legwork. John had known that about him, mostly because Sherlock sneered about it whenever they were in the same room. What he hadn't known was just how _much_ Mycroft hated legwork. Enough to complain about it every ten minutes or so in English, and probably more often in languages John didn't speak.

Sherlock hated working with Mycroft. John knew them both well enough to realize that Sherlock didn't actually hate Mycroft himself, as he often professed to do. They just didn't work well together, but they had to work together, because the fate of several countries rested on their shoulders. Having Mycroft legging it around with them was obviously beginning to wear on Sherlock's nerves.

And of course, their combined arguing was wearing on John's.

All in all, John thought that the sooner this case was wrapped up the better, and not just because of the importance of their success to the world at large. If they didn't finish soon, not all of them were coming back from this mission, because one of them was going to snap and kill the other two.

"Is it really necessary for us to climb all of these?" Mycroft griped, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Yes, as I've explained several times already," Sherlock snapped in return.

John could only assume he'd explained in German or whatever, because John hadn't yet heard the explanation.

"This is a waste of time," Mycroft said, with a dip of his eyebrows.

Sherlock was unimpressed with Mycroft's attempts at intimidation, mostly because no one intimidated Sherlock, but also possibly because a man who was clearly tiring from all the walking and climbing and jumping they were doing, was not that scary.

"If you weren't so fat and slow, we'd be there already!" Sherlock hissed, and then turned and jerkily climbed the next set of stairs.

As far as John knew, they were somewhere underground. It was all a bit of a maze, and all tightly enclosed and hard to maneuver in. Something was down here that Sherlock said was vital to the case, and if Mycroft was also here, it really must be.

"Why did you insist on coming if all you were going to do was complain?" Sherlock continued to berate him as he climbed. "John and I could have completed this easily."

"Can John read Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs?" Mycroft asked. "Of course you need me."

John rolled his eyes, but let the jibe stand. "It wasn't as if they taught it in grammar school."

They continued on for a long way, and the two brothers continued their bickering while John tried to ignore them and just focus on remembering the way back. Just because the other two probably had it effortlessly memorized didn't mean that John could just let his recon skills get rusty.

They finally reached a little room with a thick, metal door. Sherlock had the thing open in under a minute, shooting a smug look at Mycroft as he did so. John rolled his eyes and entered the room.

Before they went in, Sherlock shoved a big rock in the doorway. After a moment, the metal door tried to swing closed and came up against the rock.

"Propping it open?" John asked. "Does it lock if it closes?"

"Yes, and it can only be opened from the outside," Sherlock said with a nod. "But watch, if I do this, it doesn't move. It's exerting enough pressure I can't push it open again."

Sherlock leaned his shoulder against the door, but it didn't open any further even though it was propped up against the rock. John eyed the space created by the rock dubiously.

"Are you sure Mycroft can fit back through that?" John asked.

"It would serve him right if he couldn't," Sherlock said and rolled his eyes again. "Not to worry John, I've calculated that Mycroft will, in fact, fit through, even if he'll have to struggle a bit to make it."

"That's just a cruel and unusual punishment," John said, shaking his head at their rivalry.

"Come, John, I'm sure that Mycroft is already at the safe," Sherlock said.

"What safe?" John asked, but Sherlock had already whirled away to chase after his brother.

When they got there, Mycroft was standing on a raised platform frowning angrily at the wall next to what looked like a safe big enough to fit a vehicle.

"This isn't right," Mycroft griped, but he actually looked apprehensive. "We both agreed, Ancient Egyptian!"

"Is it not?" Sherlock asked, sounding anxious, and he scrambled up beside his brother.

John waited while the brothers suddenly stopped arguing and had what sounded like a slightly panicked discussion. John was here in case the bad guys showed up, and Sherlock had sternly told him to stand sentry. John was happy to let them deal with Ancient Egyptian.

Or rather, what _wasn't_ Ancient Egyptian as the case may be.

The brothers fell silent, but they were staring at the wall, looking a bit hopeless. Finally, John felt like he should probably ask what was wrong.

"Oi, you two, what's the hold up?" he asked, still on the look out for trouble.

"It isn't Ancient Egyptian!" Sherlock said, sounding angry, and not a bit put out.

"What's the problem, then?" John asked, exasperated. "Surely you speak like 20 languages each?"

"That's still only 40 languages, and some of our languages overlap," Sherlock said. "There are enough languages in the world that it only stands to reason that there is a language that neither of us speaks."

"What language is it?" John asked, rolling his eyes.

"No idea. This would be a lot easier if we did know what language it was," Mycroft put in. "Maybe then I could figure out what it says based on roots and structure –"

John, who had come up behind them to look, interrupted with a laugh and said. "It's Dari."

"Dari. I knew it!"

"No you didn't," John said in amused exasperation.

"Well, now I can extrapolate –"

"No need, I can read it," John said.

Sherlock pouted and then said, "Well, then Mycroft. Looks like it's you and John on safe duty and me on sentry."

Sherlock climbed down from the platform and started keeping watch, looking somewhat annoyed that his role in the adventure had been reduced to looking out for trouble.

"It doesn't make sense,"' John said. "What it says."

"Just read it to me and tell me exactly how it translates," Mycroft said.

It took a while, but John got it translated properly, so that Mycroft could understand the cultural nuances of what the words were trying to say. After listening to what John had said, Mycroft looked thoughtful for about a minute, before he began pressing a long series of buttons on the safe.

"John!" Sherlock said, just as the safe was clicking open. "There's something moving up there."

Mycroft went into the safe, and John followed him in. It was huge, and in front of them were three pedestals with little jewelled boxes on each of them. John watched in fascination as Mycroft observed them, and then picked up one.

The other two clicked open and the one in Mycroft's hand remained shut. John frowned and reached for the nearest of the two open boxes, and Mycroft raised his hand to stop him.

"The left one," Mycroft said. "The right is lined in poison spikes."

"What?" John asked, drawing his hand back in alarm.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, sounding rather more panicked. "There's a lot of things up there now!"

Mycroft removed the box on the left and upended it. Several things fell out, one of which was a little flashdrive. Mycroft pocketed this and left the rest of the scattered objects on the ground.

"We'd better be going," Mycroft said, just as there was a panicked yell of "SNAKES" from the other room.

When they emerged, Sherlock had already made his exit, dashing back toward the propped-open metal door. John looked up, and immediately drew his gun. Sherlock was right, that was a lot of bloody snakes.

"The door isn't reopening!" Sherlock said from the other side. "You'll have to fit through yourself!"

John groaned and rolled his eyes. Here was Sherlock's attempt to antagonize Mycroft backfiring spectacularly. They didn't have much time, and if Mycroft got stuck, they would have to deal with a lot of angry snakes. Come to think of it, this type of thing only happened in action movies. Why were the snakes attacking them?

John took his stance and started shooting as the snakes got nearer. His first hit produced a high-pitched ting as the bullet shattered the snake's head in a shower of sparks. Huh, mechanical snakes. Probably more deadly than actual snakes.

"Are you through?" John asked, not taking his eye of the snakes.

"Yes!" Mycroft said, sounding quite aggrieved. "No thanks to my little brother."

"Save it," John said, and went to slide through the space.

And immediately got stuck. John frowned and shifted, trying to pull himself through, but found that he was wedged in quite tightly.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock said anxiously. "I _really_ don't like snakes."

"They're not real," John reported.

"Doesn't matter!" Sherlock said.

John twisted and struggled, and finally managed to start pulling himself through, although it really was a very tight fit.

And that's when he felt it: a tiny pinprick as one of the blasted snakes caught up with him while he was trapped in this stupid doorway. John was going to kill Sherlock when they got out of this mess.

He struggled through, but by the time he made it, his muscles were already getting weak and watery and his vision was going blurry.

"Shoot," John said, handing off the gun to an alarmed Sherlock, before completely blacking out.

OoOOoo

John wasn't even surprised when he came around to find himself staring at the ceiling of a hospital room. Sherlock was asleep next to him, head rested on John's covers, and he woke up as soon as John shifted.

Sherlock happily chattered away, telling John how they'd wrapped up the case while John was unconscious. It sounded exactly like the best kind of adventure, the kind where John should have been with Sherlock, watching his back. 

He hadn't been, and it was because he'd gotten stuck in the very same door that Mycroft had gotten stuck in. John would have liked to blame it all on Sherlock, because he was the one who had been playing games with Mycroft. But that didn't change the fact that he'd gotten stuck. 

Sherlock was always telling Mycroft how overweight he was and needling him about his size, even going to the extent that he would try and humiliate him while they were in the middle of an important mission.

But Sherlock's joke had caught John as well.

Was John overweight?

Much later, when they were home again, John stood sideways in the bathroom mirror and examined his stomach, clenching and unclenching his muscles and sucking in his gut. He had gained a bit of weight, since his departure from the army. Although... now that he thought about it, he hadn't been in the army for almost five years now. He might not be army-trim anymore, but was he actually fat? He'd concentrated so much on trying to get some meat on Sherlock's skinny bones that he hadn't stopped to consider his own diet.

Nothing to worry about it. He just needed to start exercising a bit more, that was all.

The next day, John signed up with a gym membership.

He didn't mention it to Sherlock at all. Sherlock didn't need to know about all this. It was just a little problem that John could fix on his own. Their next good case, John wouldn't have the extra weight slowing him down.

OoOOoo

The first day John was due to start his new exercise regime, he tried to sneak out the door without Sherlock noticing his gym bag, or the fact he was dressed in jogger bums and a ratty old army shirt. Unfortunately, Sherlock was bored, and looked up as soon as John tried to sneak past the door.

"Really, John, a gym membership?" Sherlock drawled. "Dull."

"I just need to get some exercise," John said, scuffing his trainers on the ground.

Sherlock said, "Dull," again and flopped over on the couch.

"You..." John said hesitantly. "You don't think I'm overweight, do you?"

Sherlock waved his hand and didn't say anything one way or another. Anxiously, John left and made his way to the gym, frowning and pinching at his sides. It was no matter. This issue would be cleared up soon enough. After a youth filled with football and rugby and then his army days, John knew how to exercise.

John went to the gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays, like clockwork. He stayed exactly an hour and a half, and alternated with cardio workouts and weigh training. John felt like he was making progress, and would have been happy to simply continue on with working out exactly on schedule until he found a decent reason to quit.

Until the Brawny Boys showed up.

John didn't know what else to call them except what they were, especially since he didn't want to ask them their names. What he did know was that they were all extremely fit and that they were between tours in Afghanistan. They started coming in and taking over a corner of the gym, laughing, talking and generally being exactly what John used to be like before he was shot. It was like a punch in the gut to see them, their camaraderie and strength as a team. 

It just reminded John of the best times of his life, a life he was no longer a part of, and could never go back to. John considered simply switching gyms, but there was something stubborn within him that wouldn't give up just because of their presence.

Instead of avoiding them, he stepped up his regime. He'd show them who was fit.

Logically, he knew he was being an idiot about this, because it was likely the Brawny Boys didn't even notice his presence or care if they had. They didn't care about the private struggle going on in his head, his own sense of inadequacy. This was John's struggle alone.

He started going to the gym on Saturday as well, just after he got off his extra half-day at the clinic. He took his gym bag to work when he left and hoped that Sherlock wouldn't notice his absence for an extra hour or two.

It was just one extra day. Nothing huge.

John took to watching them while he was on the treadmill or when he was doing pull-ups. They were so effortlessly surpassing his own standard of fitness that John sometimes despaired that he would ever catch up to them.

That's when John realized he was competing with them.

He watched them at the gym, and even though they never wore anything that suggested armed forces, he could see army written all over them. He didn't need to be Sherlock to see it, because it was just so familiar, that John suddenly felt homesick.

He could visualize them in their combat uniforms as easily as Sherlock could visualize 240 types of tobacco ash.

He passed them again on his way to the bench press. He often pretended he was passing by them on his way to one machine or the other, but John realized that he was hoping that they would see him.

It was like being juvenile all over again, being a silly fifth former hoping that a group of girls would see him even though he was short and spotty. He hadn't been overweight then, but he was twenty years or so older now.

He recognized them, and he was desperately hoping they would recognize him back.

OoOOoo

He was running again.

He was always running, as of late.

Sherlock had not noticed at all that John was missing on those days he went to the gym, so John added in a trip to they gym on Monday as well, because he didn't work that day. As an added bonus, the Brawny Boys weren't there that day, and it made John feel accomplished to know that he was exercising, while they were probably out at the pub or something.

Out at the pub trying to pull.

No wonder John hadn't been able to pull recently if he'd managed to let himself get as fat as Mycroft. This whole exercise thing was helping in all aspects of his life, really. Maybe once he'd managed to get rid of the layer of fat on his belly, he would be able to get back in the game and finally meet someone.

He was running again, because for some reason, that little bit of pudge resting just over his belly was refusing to budge. John realized that he was plenty strong enough now. He'd added a good amount of upper body muscle that he'd lost in his civilian life. His legs were still pretty fit from chasing Sherlock everywhere as well.

It was just this stupid little bit of fat that was getting in the way of John finally reaching his goal. He might even start running on Wednesdays as well if this didn't start to go away soon.

It didn't occur to him until later that the obvious solution was to cut down on food.

He was always scolding Sherlock for not eating enough, and Sherlock was lean as a whip. Not to mention, Sherlock cut a dashing figure, especially with those cheekbones and his height. John blushed a little thinking about it. John would never be tall or thin like his flatmate, but in the very least, he should be able to lose a tiny bit of extra weight.

He wasn't extreme or anything.

First he cut out the obvious things like takeaway and excessively sugary things. Instead of popping out to the nearest chippy for lunch, he'd pack a healthy meal. Some of the nurses at the surgery noticed his change in diet and complimented him, making him feel like this was a good decision.

John actually felt better eating healthy foods, but even though all the exercise and dietary changes had made him feel more energized than ever, the change didn't come to his body. That stubborn bit of fat was still hanging on. John looked in the mirror, poking at that soft bit of fat and sighed.

It didn't take him long to give in and cut down on one meal, as much as he told himself he wouldn't go that far.

Breakfast. Lunch, the nurses would notice and dinner Sherlock would notice. No one would notice him missing breakfast except John.

It was terrible. John was always starving by lunchtime, and would then sometimes buy something extra for lunch, which wasn't on.

All it took was one late-night case where he missed dinner and then his usual missed breakfast to realize that if he went long enough without eating, he would hit the point where he no longer felt hungry.

Sherlock probably wouldn't notice or care about John's life enough to notice a missed meal. He didn't even notice his own.

Looking back, he should have realized then that he was going too far.

But he didn't, and once he had rationalized it to himself, he forged ahead as diligently as he undertook any other mission. Just like clockwork, he was at the gym five days a week, increasing the hours he was at the gym to two and a half hours, and cutting breakfast and dinner out of his diet.

And even better – it started working.

John had never felt more satisfaction than when he looked at himself shirtless in the mirror and saw defined muscle and actual abs forming. Turning sideways, he looked at his reflection, and didn't even have to suck in his gut.

The best part of the whole transformation was the day that the Brawny boys finally noticed him. By that point, John didn't even care if they saw him or not, he was feeling so self-satisfied. It was still a stroke to his ego when they all clustered over while he was doing chin-ups and waited for him to finish his set.

"You're military," the biggest of the lot said.

"Ex," he agreed, fairly amiably for how long he'd been watching them jealously from afar.

"We could tell," another guy said from the back. "What made you quit?"

"I was shot," John admitted, and the bunch of them seemed impressed by that.

He traded a few stories with them about their time abroad and wished them luck when they returned to Afghanistan in just a few weeks. He managed to persuade himself not to reveal the scar on his shoulder. He always told Sherlock not to be a show off, but it was a close thing. Once they'd managed to contact him initially, they were only too happy to include him in the same camaraderie they had shown each other.

Now that he'd talked to them, he felt a bit silly for ever thinking that he needed to compete with them over this. How long had they been wanting to talk to him, too? He hadn't asked, but he got the distinct impression that the admiration had gone both ways.

He got back, burning with energy and exuberence now that this whole chain of events seemed to be validated, at least in John's head.

Right until John walked through the door and found Sherlock waiting for him.

"Why do you keep going off to that silly place of torture that people insist on calling a place to exercise?" Sherlock asked. "We could just as easily go on a case if you want excitement."

With his body in the shape it was, John was no longer afraid to say, "I was trying to lose weight."

Because obviously it had worked.

Sherlock looked him over, squinting, and John held his head up higher and squared his shoulders. 

"You weigh the same as you always do," Sherlock said.

"I don't!" John said in surprise, shock coursing through him. How could Sherlock say that? He'd lost all that fat around his middle! He was fit as a fiddle – fitter even.

"No, I'm quite sure your weight is similar to about a month ago," Sherlock said.

"Bollocks," John said, and stomped off to his room.

Another anxious look down at his belly revealed that he was still as fit as he had been when he looked in the mirror that morning. In the very least _he_ didn't see any fat on his stomach. But Sherlock was never wrong.

It wouldn't hurt to just continue with this for a few more days, just to be sure.

ooOOoo

John's day started off like any other.

He started off with a quick cup of tea. Even when this entire thing had begun, John had refused to cut tea out. As far as John was concerned, a day without tea might as well be the end of the world.

He'd prepared his lunch for today the night before, and he grabbed it as he walked out the door, wrapped up in its paper bag like a little present. Of all the meals and snacks to get the axe, lunch had stayed, if only because health care practitioners would always notice if someone missed a meal, as John well knew.

He had patients come in all morning, some for their regular appointments, and other random drop-ins that he fit in between them. The other doctors usually complained about drop-ins, but John never did, so the nurses usually asked for John to do them first before asking anyone else.

Break for lunch.

This was the part of the day where everything went to hell in the space of about five minutes.

It turned out that Sherlock had put an experiment away in the fridge the night before in the same type of paper bag that John had, and instead of his lunch, he'd grabbed Sherlock's experiment. So suddenly, not only did he not have lunch, he also had a dead, maggoty bird to deal with.

Luckily, the surgery had a way to deal with biohazardous waste, so John didn't have much trouble with the bird carcass besides being disgusted.

He now had no lunch, which was annoying, but would have been easily dealt with by a trip down the street. There was some health food cafe down there that would have healthy food, no big deal.

Of course, that's when Sherlock showed up.

The first words out of his mouth were: "What am I supposed to do with a ham sandwich?"

"Eat it, maybe," John said, still not in too much of a bad mood.

"Funny, John. I was wondering when you'd start trying to get me to eat again. Been a bit lax of late, have we? Never mind that, we have a case," Sherlock was already halfway out the door, with John by the wrist, before John slammed his heels into the ground.

"Haven't had lunch, got your bird instead."

"Did you save it?"

"No."

"Shame. I'll have to redo the experiment – "

"Not in our fridge, you won't."

"John, come _on_."

And because John was already skipping meals, and it didn't seem so bad since he was already skipping them anyway to miss one more, John simply followed him out the door.

The rest of the afternoon was a bit of a blur, and by that night, John was starting to feel a bit empty, not to mention tired from tracking a criminal down on foot all across the city. But he'd been keeping up just fine, which pleased not only John, but Sherlock as well.

They were closing in on the murderer, but as usual, the murderer thought they could outrun the police, not to mention John and Sherlock, and they were having a merry time trying to box them in. It was dark, and the alleyways they were in smelt of piss and alcohol.

John ran. He was fast now, and stronger than he had been earlier, and was feeling great about himself. Earlier in the day, he'd noticed some of the officers giving him appreciative looks. Obviously they had noticed his new body, not like stupid Sherlock making stupid comments about him still weighing the same.

There was shouting in the distance, and John thought that Lestrade and company had finally closed in on their suspect. John's only regret over this was that it hadn't been him that got to tackle the bastard. Sherlock was right about one thing – going to the gym every day was great for his physique, but mentally, he needed more excitement. Maybe he could start going with Sherlock on more cases and cut down on the gym until he was back to two days again.

He was so busy thinking about this that he almost didn't realize something was wrong.

At first, John thought that the funny feeling in his legs was just tiredness, but soon, he felt like he was running through molasses. It was like being in a dream, the terrifying kind where you were trying to run, but couldn't move fast enough no matter how hard you struggled.

Without warning, John's legs just gave out, and he suddenly found himself sitting on the ground. He tried to stand, but his legs were too shaky. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, nor were the rest of the Yarders, too busy chasing down the murderer.

John clumsily got out his phone and tried to text Sherlock, but he wasn't sure if his text made any sense. He felt a bit like he was drunk, totally uncoordinated and with his brain not working fast enough to keep up with the situation.

Just as the blurriness turned to darkness, John hoped that someone thought to come looking for him.


	2. Picture Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that both John and Sherlock are aware of the problem, now comes the long, hard task of fixing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second half of Slim to None, which is a gift for Tumblr user [idowhathedoesjustslower](http://idowhathedoesjustslower.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If any of my other fics hits 10K views, I'll be doing another giveaway.
> 
> If you want to come request fics, talk about Johnlock or just hang out, my Tumblr is [here](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)

John came to in the back of an ambulance.

He groaned and tipped his head back. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, but it looked as if he'd failed on that count. He should have insisted on grabbing lunch before they ran off. Now that this had happened, Sherlock would get nosy and deduce everything that had happened.

Speaking of Sherlock, once he blinked his eyes open, he found himself almost nose to nose with him as Sherlock looked down at him in concern.

"You're awake! He's awake," he said to the ambulance attendants.

John rolled his eyes.

"What happened, John?" Sherlock asked. "You just collapsed. You haven't been drugged or otherwise damaged by the perpatrator."

John wasn't about to say he'd collapsed from low blood sugar.

But the ambulance attendant had other ideas.

"How much have you had to eat in the past few days, sir?" one asked.

"I missed lunch," he said, not mentioning that he hadn't been eating much as of late.

"He also missed dinner and breakfast," Sherlock said, suddenly getting a light in his eye as he began putting things together at lightning speed as soon as it was set in the right direction. "John! I should have noticed the signs."

"What?" John asked irritably. "I missed a couple meals, it's not as if you never do that."

"I've never collapsed!" Sherlock said.

"Can you leave your argument until after we get to the hospital?" the second ambulance attendant asked with a sigh.

"I don't need the hospital," John said, trying to sit up.

"Yes, you do," Sherlock said. "Anyway, we're on our way already."

John sighed and leaned back again, trying to ignore everyone around him. This was going to be a lot more hassle than it was worth.

They wanted to know all about his recent diet history, and John was annoyed, especially as Sherlock was hovering over their shoulders. He knew what they were thinking – he had an eating disorder of some sort. John went through the medical diagnosis in his head and came to the conclusion that he wasn't anorexic. He didn't have a distorted vision of his own body, right?

He looked down at his own stomach, and was still satisfied with the results.

Now that he'd hit his goal, he didn't feel the need to exercise too much, or to stop eating. Granted, it had probably been a bit unwise to exercise so much at the same time as cutting out too much food, but it had worked, hadn't it?

Now, he was left with the unfortunate task of explaining everything to the doctors and getting them to let him go.

"So, how much have you been exercising lately?" was another question John didn't feel much like answering.

"I've been exercising a bit more lately, and cutting some types of food out of my diet. It's just that I forgot my lunch today," John explained patiently. "I'm absolutely fine."

There was no way he was discussing body insecurity with a roomful of men.

"He's been exercising excessively," Sherlock put in tentatively.

"Sherlock!" John protested, but the doctors turned to look at him, listening attentively.

"Go on, then," they persuaded Sherlock, and once he had permission, it was just like being at a crime scene, except the thing he was dissecting was John.

John had never felt more like someone was pinning him to a board and taking a scalpel to his innards, getting deduced like this, with Sherlock digging around in his psyche until he discovered the truth. Is this how people usually felt when Sherlock was deducing them? It was the most uncomfortable experience of his life.

Sherlock laid it all out to examine.

The start of his exercise regime, starting with his Tuesday and Thursday schedule and escalating to five days a week of at least two hours each.

How he started cutting food that he used to enjoy out of his diet and strictly controlling how much food he ate. Cutting out breakfast entirely and starting to cut out dinner.

How he started organizing his day around when he was able to go to the gym instead of fitting his exercise regime around his current schedule.

How he tried to hide the entire thing from Sherlock, and had largely succeeded, as the harm this was causing John only came to his attention once John had collapsed and Sherlock looked back at what John was doing.

The more Sherlock talked, the more distressed he looked, and John had to look away.

This was why he hadn't told anyone about what he was doing. It just caused unnecessary strife to those who had nothing to do with John's personal decisions.

"You have an excessive exercising addiction," one of the doctors informed him, which John pointedly ignored by not saying anything.

You couldn't get addicted to exercising. Exercise was good for you! John fumed, refusing to look at his own doctorly repertoire of evidence to the contrary. They were all nosy gits, poking around in John's life when he hadn't asked them to.

After they had him pumped full of their chemical elixirs, they finally let John go. But not before they took Sherlock aside for a little chat, which John knew for a fact would be the doctors telling him to keep an eye on John. Imagine that – Sherlock actually keeping an eye on something other than an experiment. John snorted and refused to look at Sherlock the entire way back to 221B.

To John's surprise, Sherlock did keep an eye on him.

The next morning when John was on his way to work, tea in a thermos to keep it warm, Sherlock was in the kitchen, waiting for him. He had made toast and applied a liberal amount of jam to both the pieces he gave John. He kept two for himself as well.

"I won't eat mine unless you eat yours," Sherlock said.

John scarfed his down, glaring, and Sherlock ate his more slowly. When Sherlock finished, John rushed out the door, heart pounding. Sherlock couldn't keep up with this, could he? He'd forget within a week.

John was wrong.

Every morning, Sherlock made them both toast and jam, and the one time John tried to refuse, Sherlock glared at him and held his own toast threateningly over the garbage. He also started trying to make them dinner once John got home, although it was often quite late because he'd get involved in an experiment and not remember until almost ten at night.

John thought that would be the end of the discussion and was relieved that Sherlock was going to continue with silence on the subject.

However, one day, Sherlock said, "It was my fault."

"What was your fault?" John asked, frowning. Sherlock never admitted something was his fault.

"Your exercising addiction. I started it. I remember now. It took a while to work out what was the contributing factor, but once I made a timeline, it was obvious. It was the case, the one where that snake bit you because I'd made the door too narrow for Mycroft to fit through."

"You think rather highly of your own influence," John snapped in response.

"It was my fault though," Sherlock said. "I made you feel like you weren't good enough. I asked Mycroft, you know, about how my taunts about his weight made him feel."

"I imagine that went well," John said sarcastically.

"Mycroft is always trying to lose weight," Sherlock continued. "I knew about it, and always made fun of him, because I knew it was a sore point for him. His _only_ sore point, as far as I can tell. I'm beginning to think that this wasn't really fair. As much as I hate working with my brother, if I have to demean him about something not related to the case, I've already lost the argument."

"So why did you ever make fun of him in the first place?" John asked, finally looking Sherlock in the eye. "If you knew it was a sore spot and that insulting someone based on something personal would win you no debates, why did you do it?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet. "Hurting him emotionally was the closest I could ever come to winning an argument with him. It was to make me feel better about myself, knowing I'd scored a point, even if it wasn't relevant to the conversation."

"At least _something_ good has come of this," John said. "Maybe now, there won't be so many childish arguments on cases, hm?"

"But it made me realize that I'd caused you the same pain it caused my brother," Sherlock continued. "It was unintentional, but I made you question your self worth. Based on stupid society-fueled obsessions with being thin."

Sherlock looked pained at this. 

"You told me I weighed the same," John reminded him.

"You did," Sherlock said. "You still do. But what you didn't let me say was this: muscle is denser than fat. You remained the same overall weight, but you lost enough fat and gained enough muscle that it stayed balanced."

"Oh," John said.

"I probably still shouldn't have said that," Sherlock said hurriedly, cheeks pinking as he glared at his own shoes. "I just didn't want to say what my first impression was."

"Which was?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but his face darkened further, until even the tips of his ears were a rosy shade of pink. John wondered what could possibly be causing such a reaction when the realization hit him all of a sudden.

"Oh," he said, and Sherlock looked away completely.

"I'm only telling you so that you stop thinking bad things about your own body!" Sherlock said loudly, still looking pointedly at the opposite wall. "But obviously, my own body chemistry is reacting positively and – thinking that you need any improvement is ludicrous. If you somehow became more attractive, it would probably distract me at crime scenes."

And then Sherlock fled down the stairs and out the door, probably to hide out at the morgue for a while. John found that he was smiling stupidly at where Sherlock had been standing and tried to stop, but the realization that Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – thought he was attractive just made him break out in a grin.

Now that John knew, whenever John caught Sherlock staring at him, Sherlock would blush and look away guiltily. It hit John that this wasn't a new thing. Sherlock had always had a habit of staring at him hard for a prolonged period of time. John had just thought he was being Sherlock, and thinking of scientific things or deductive things – not that John was fit.

"How long have you thought I was attractive?" John asked him while they were at the lab one day.

Sherlock dropped the test tube he was holding on the countertop. Luckily, it was empty, because John didn't want anything to interrupt, not when Sherlock had that complicated embarrassed and confused look on his face.

"Always," Sherlock said, blush already overtaking his face. "Since we first met, in this very lab. John, can we not talk about this? I know you find it strange, but please don't think I told you because I expect you to reciprocate the feelings I have. I was simply trying to undo the harm I caused you."

And then he left the lab, presumably to go and get coffee or something so that he could escape John's gaze. John smiled and felt a flutter somewhere in his stomach. He liked Sherlock like this, all nervous and uncertain. Also, when he blushed, it was kind of adorable.

So, Sherlock liked his body? John grinned and tried to come up with a plan. It was probably an entirely transparent plan, but he _wanted_ Sherlock to see right through it.

Nowadays, instead of going out to exercise, John would do a few push ups or weight exercises in the living room. He went out around the block for a run and came back sweaty, with his t-shirt sticking damply to his skin.

Sherlock noticed.

John knew he noticed, because the next few days, Sherlock would insist on giving him a carbohydrate-rich lunch and a protein-heavy dinner whenever he was going to exercise. John didn't even ask how Sherlock knew which days he was going to, because this was Sherlock. After several months of him observing John's exercise habits, something must have tipped him off.

The next day, when he got back from his run, John took off his sweaty shirt, wiped off his face and hair with the shirt and then dumped it on the couch. He saw Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye while he pretended to do his experiment in the kitchen. He stretched out his shoulder muscles casually, grinning as he saw the beginnings of a flush working its way up Sherlock's throat. He couldn't help but check to see if there was any other evidence. Sherlock was wearing his goggles, so he couldn't see his pupils, but through his shirt he could see Sherlock's nipples were hard and peaked.

"I'm for the shower," John said, walking past Sherlock in the kitchen, and pausing behind him.

He saw Sherlock's shoulders tense slightly and grinned. "That's good," Sherlock said in a bored tone, but if the way he was shifting in his chair was any indication, he was anything but uninterested.

After he left to get in the shower, he turned it on, but then tiptoed back to peak out the door and back into the living room. As anticipated, Sherlock had gotten up from his experiment and had picked John's shirt up from the couch, and was looking at it with a complicated expression. Just as John thought Sherlock was going to lose his nerve, Sherlock buried his face in John's t-shirt, inhaling heavily enough that his chest heaved.

John shut the door again, heart pounding. God, the expression on his face when he'd given in and just done what his body wanted.

John pulled himself off in the shower as he imagined Sherlock's face if he ever let John touch him. John had a pretty good repertoire of expressions to go on at the moment, and came gasping and spilling against the wall of the shower.

OOooOO

John couldn't believe it, but Sherlock kept up making him breakfast every morning, and even remembered to make dinner occasionally. John finally gave in and started making dinner the other half of the time. Sherlock had been right, in his obsession with cutting food out of his own diet, he'd neglected making sure Sherlock ate.

Sometimes he had to remind himself that he didn't need to exercise today.

He never went back to the gym to renew his monthly membership. When he had to exercise, he did it at home where Sherlock knew it was happening. Half the reason was that he wanted to see Sherlock's face whenever he did weight training in the living room, but the other half was that he didn't want Sherlock to worry that he was going to go back to the amount of exercise that had been harming John.

John exercised more than he ever had in the past, and it was a bit of a struggle not to start doing it more again, but every time he thought about going out for another hard run, he would stay in and eat Chinese take-out with Sherlock and watch crap telly. That was almost as good, especially since Sherlock often got bored and he could ask him questions.

"Are you gay?" he asked Sherlock one night while a Doctor Who rerun was on.

The lighting in the room was too dark to tell if Sherlock was blushing, but John would bet money that he was.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I find men attractive. Not all men, mind you. Just some. Mostly..." he gulped in a huge breath and continued gamely. "Mostly you."

"Oh, really? Hadn't noticed," John said, but shifted closer.

Sherlock froze noticeably, but then shifted closer an equal amount, movements tentative. In a few moments, they were pressed together on the couch, not even pretending to still be watching the telly.

"John..." Sherlock said, sounding uncertain and nervous.

And suddenly, it was just too much. John got Sherlock firmly around the waist and lifted him over his lap, leaning up to kiss him.

Sherlock whined and dipped his head down, hands gripping his shoulders hard as John's hands slid under his rumpled t-shirt to seek out warm skin. Sherlock's mouth was plush and eager, letting John invade easily, parting wetly to let him enter. 

For a few minutes, all they did was snog, John running his hands reverantly over Sherlock's sides and over the curve of his spine, feeling every knob of his back. Sherlock shivered and squirmed in his lap, and John got his hands in his hair. It was soft, and twined around his fingers as he curled them around the back of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock's nipples were hard again, standing out against his thin t-shirt. John mouthed at them through the fabric, and Sherlock panted, gripping John's biceps. John quickly divested Sherlock of his t-shirt, and Sherlock whimpered as John's mouth found his nipple again, this time sucking and lapping at it until it was pink and slightly swollen.

"Not fair," Sherlock panted.

"What's not fair?" John asked roughly.

"You're still wearing your jumper," Sherlock accused him. "It's too thick and large to let me see you properly."

John gained a new and sudden understanding of Sherlock's hatred for his jumpers.

He quickly got his jumper off as well, and Sherlock sighed, leaning down to bury his nose into the hair at the nape of John's neck. He breathed in deeply, and John felt the edge of teeth on the skin of his neck behind his ear. He made a sharp sound as Sherlock bit down harder, but it brought the low simmer of arousal in his gut up to a full boil.

Sherlock's erection was straining his pyjama bottoms already, and John thanked the heavens for ratty pyjama bottoms, because the material of Sherlock's trousers would have been terrible to try and touch Sherlock through. As it was, John could feel everything as he ran his hand up between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock moaned brokenly and trembled against John, half-collapsing on top of him as John stoked him through the flimsy material. Damn, Sherlock wasn't wearing any pants underneath and his questing fingers quickly located the curve of his testicles and the sensitive patch of skin right behind them.

"John, John, John," Sherlock gasped in his ear, fingers opening and closing on John's shoulders.

Sherlock gasped and shuddered as John explored with his hand, gently cupping Sherlock's testicles and pushing at his perineum. Eventually, John got frustrated with even the pyjama bottoms and pulled them down around Sherlock's defined hipbones.

Sherlock's cock was long, slender and flushed, and as soon as he was free of the fabric, rubbed himself against John's stomach. John watched in fascination as Sherlock bucked up against him, panting and flushed all over.

John reached up, and Sherlock stopped to watch, eyes dark and hungry, as John licked his palm, slicking it up with saliva and then reaching down to grasp Sherlock's cock in his wet hand. Sherlock's jaw went slack with the sensation, and he collapsed against John's neck, whimpering as John stroked him purposefully, rubbing his thumb over the glossy head of his cock.

"Look at you," whispered John, and Sherlock looked down between them and watched as John swirled his thumb over his slit, spreading the pre-ejaculate that bubbled up over his glans.

Sherlock whined and writhed in John's lap, becoming more and more desperate until he was making little cut off cries and trying to rub himself off against John's stomach. John took pity on him and sped up his strokes until Sherlock gasped out John's name in a litany and came all over John's stomach.

Sherlock trembled in the aftermath of orgasm, and John held him loosely around the waist, waiting for him to recover. The shivering died down, and when Sherlock raised himself up, he had a new gleam in his eye.

"My turn," he whispered.

Sherlock started at his head, running his long fingers through John's hair, spreading them out over his skull like he was trying to memorize the exact measurements of his head. He ran his thumb down the bridge of John's nose, and when John opened his eyes, Sherlock met his gaze and held it.

The curve of his neck and the wings of his collarbone were given the same attention, this time followed by Sherlock's mouth, kissing and nipping. John gasped and tipped his head to the side, feeling Sherlock sucking a mark into his skin.

Sherlock loved his shoulders. He kept running his hands over them, feeling the flex of the muscle as John shifted. He ran his hand down John's arms, fingertips finding muscle definition. When he reached John's hands, he lifted them up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. John chuckled softly at the sweet gesture and bumped their foreheads together gently.

John couldn't believe it, but he still felt hesitation over his body, even with Sherlock's hands caressing him reverantly, fingers circling his nipples and face pressed between the defined curve of his pecs.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Sherlock asked, looking shy.

"If it's that you think I'm fit, I think I've got it," John said, laughing.

"No," Sherlock smiled. "It's just that... the little bit of fat you had on your stomach. I kind of liked it, when you had it still."

"Why?" John asked, baffled by this statement.

"It made you seem more... soft. Approachable. I'm nervous now, to touch you," Sherlock said, looking down at his shaking hands. "These silly knobbly hands shouldn't be anywhere near you."

John smiled, and gently took Sherlock's hands in his, placing them on his stomach where Sherlock's come was still painted across his skin. Sherlock made a litte moaning noise as he smeared it over John's skin.

Shifting back a little, Sherlock slid off John's lap and onto the floor between John's knees. His fingers still trembled, and he fumbled a little with the button on John's jeans, but he had it undone soon enough, reaching through the slit in John's pants to draw his cock out. 

John had been absolutely aching to be touched since he first had Sherlock's warm weight in his lap, and he hissed as he was released into the open air. Sherlock, still looking slightly nervous, used one hand to draw the foreskin back from the head and then closed his mouth over it.

Sherlock's mouth was hot, wet and seemed to pull pleasure straight from the centre of his being. He went boneless on the sofa, spreading his legs, head tipping back helplessly as Sherlock fit more of John's cock in his mouth and bobbed slowly, moaning softly around his mouthful.

"Fuck," John said, fingers digging into Sherlock's hair as Sherlock's cheeks hollowed.

Sherlock's hands ran up and down John's jean-clad thighs while his mouth sank down further, so far that Sherlock began tearing up.

John rubbed his thumb through the moisture gathering at the corners of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock moaned again and tried to fit even more of John's cock into his mouth. He sucked and swallowed around John's cock, and John gasped and tried to keep his hips from bucking up.

It had been far too long since John had had such a talented mouth on him, and before very long, he was clenching his hands in Sherlock's hair and gasping out a warning, which Sherlock ignored in favour of gulping down as much of John's release as he could handle.

They sat there in the living room for several minutes, both breathing hard. John's head was tipped back against the back of the couch, and Sherlock was resting his cheek against one of John's thighs, making an odd purring noise as John carded his fingers through his damp curls.

"Come here," John said, pulling Sherlock back up onto the couch.

Sherlock tentatively went, trying to figure out where he should settle, and when John figured he had dithered long enough, simply dragged Sherlock down on top of him. Sherlock sighed and relaxed against him, head rested on the curve of John's shoulder.

"So..." John finally said. "That was a thing that happened."

He kept stroking a hand through Sherlock's hair, enjoying the warm, musky scent of their combined sweat.

"Yes," Sherlock said in a sleepy voice. "I wanted you to know, John, that I've always considered you the perfect specimen of human beauty."

"Me?" John laughed, could laugh, now that he had a warm, pliant body in his arms. "I was a haggard, broken man with a limp and no sense of purpose in life. Not to mention a fresh scar."

"Yes, and I loved you immediately," Sherlock said, reaching out to trace gentle fingers over John's now-healed scar. "At once. Like in those soppy romance films. I didn't believe that such a thing was fact and not fantasy until you walked in that door."

"I did, too," John admitted. "Loved you as soon as I saw you. These types of things never happen to old war veterans, not _after_ they've left the war. I didn't think I could have you."

"You can have me," Sherlock promised. "As long as you want."

The two of them fell asleep like that, tangled on the sofa, half-dressed and wholly satisfied.

OOooOO

John looked in the mirror before he went to work and sighed as he pulled a clean jumper over his head, found all the things he needed for work, and went downstairs.

Sherlock was waiting for him when he got there, with a fresh cup of tea and toast for two. John smiled, and Sherlock looked pleased and embarrassed as he handed John his cup.

"You know, I didn't realize this was a romantic gesture when I first started," Sherlock said, taking a bite out of his own toast. "I just wanted you to eat."

"It worked well in both our favours," John said fondly.

Sherlock had gained some weight since his whole campaign to keep John eating had started, mostly because unless Sherlock ate, John wouldn't eat.

John had gained some weight too, and that was okay.

That little bit of pudge that John had fought so hard to lose had made its return, and John had made his peace with it. He realized that if he could only get that fat to leave by starving and exercising himself almost to death, then it was more healthy to keep the pudge than try and lose it.

Anyway, Sherlock had been delighted, at least. He liked to rest his head over it when John was sitting on one end of the couch and Sherlock was sprawled out over the rest of it.

John still went running twice a week, and sometimes did weight training in the living room, and he still tried to make more healthy choices when eating. Not to say that it was easy, because it hadn't been, but John had settled into a satisfactory routine.

Some days, he still got the urge to run again, to start up the extreme routine that he'd followed before, but if he did, he would go find Sherlock.

Mostly, cases had taken over from the exercising. A good chase and the excitement of watching Sherlock solve them was good enough for John.

If Sherlock didn't have a case, Sherlock would recognize the look in his eye and do something to distract him. Sometimes, that would be by watching crap telly together snuggled on the couch or helping Sherlock with an experiment.

Other times, it meant that Sherlock would drag him back to his room for a good shag.

It turned out, that once Sherlock realized he had permission to shag John whenever it was convenient, he was a very enthusiastic participant. John didn't think he'd had this much sex since his university days. Sherlock told him he hadn't really had any sex at all since he was also in university, but from some of the positions Sherlock wanted them to try, it had been a dynamic five years.

In fact, John was still a bit sore from last night.

He blushed a bit at the ache he felt and hoped that he wasn't going to be walking funny all day. Sherlock clearly noticed the slight limp was back in his gait, for an entirely different reason than the one when they'd first met.

"You'll have to go take a bouquet of apology flowers to Mrs. Hudson," he said, finishing off his toast.

"We weren't that loud –" Sherlock protested.

" _I_ was," John said, shaking his head.

"Yes, I suppose you were," Sherlock said, sounding delighted with this, and not at all ashamed at the noise they'd probably subjected poor Mrs. Hudson to. "I didn't realize your voice went that high."

"Neither did I," John said ruefully.

"Well, now you know what I mean," Sherlock said smugly.

John blushed and nodded, waving a hand at Sherlock. "Yes, yes. I won't tease you for acting like a shameless slag when you're on bottom."

"I wish I had a recording," Sherlock sighed. "Alas. Next time."

"Nope," John said, and grinned, leaning over to kiss Sherlock before he left for work. He tasted of jam and tea.

Sherlock hummed happily and hung on just a bit longer, so John put his bag down and pulled Sherlock into his arms to kiss him properly. When Sherlock let go, John kissed the tip of his nose and then rushed out the door, grinning.

He might not have the perfect body anymore, but God knew he had the perfect life.


End file.
